The Puppet Theatre
by Scarlett Montreal
Summary: Odd, eccentric, practically absurd!


Disclaimer: TLW, Neighbours, anything other characters that appear in my story Not mine

A flower of fog bloomed on the window of the coach, then dissipated just as quickly.

Rhythmic breathing.

A head, once delicately held high, rested on the harshly uncomfortable windowsill

_Where is he._

These words were thought with the apathy of words that have crossed one's mind thousands of times yet remained unanswered. For the first week or two of her ride, Marguerite's mind had been lost to her—memories inaccessible, identity unknown. She starved with curiosity. Gradually, morsels and tidbits of memory had found their way back, but the heiress was still not able to pinpoint the exact details of her life—who she was, where she was, what she had been doing for the past few decades, who her family was, if she even had one. Did she have siblings? Parents? Children? A husband? There _was _one person.

_He_ was constantly sneaking through the back of her mind. She had been plagued by her desire for _him_, to see _him_, for him to whisk her away on a gallant white horse and rescue her from her captors. Her captor. It. At first, that fantasy had replayed itself again and again in her dreams and in her waking hours, but any faith that such a thing might happen had since disappeared. She struggled to remember his face, grasping it one second and feeling it slip away from her the next. That was one puzzle piece that had chosen to remain hidden. But perhaps it wasn't a memory. Perhaps it was just a concoction of her distressed subconscious, trying to create something-anything!- that would bring a twinkle of solace to her dismal prison. Weeks had passed after the initial incident, and doubt had since replaced her fairy tale. In the beginning, the idea of her savior—of his absence—had sent rage through her bloodstream. Days upon days passed where Marguerite transmogrified into a screaming, raving savage, channeling every ounce of energy into the sole obsession of escaping. She beat upon each wall of her chamber. She clawed and punched at each barrier that separated her from freedom, praying to plant a hole or tear or some small possibility of escape. Such velvety walls as those found in the coach stood with the deception of weakness, of softness and suppleness, but that could not have been further from the truth. The woman waged war inside of the coach until, out of exhaustion, she couldn't move another muscle. Somehow she always ended up sustaining more damage, herself, than her six intended victims together. Her knuckles blushed with rashes and burns from the velvet, eventually bleeding when the violence came to an end. Sticky drops, serving as evidence of failure, seeped through her wounds when they no longer met the walls' absorbent fabric. The rich liquid disappeared into its depths without so much as a trace. The crimson hue of the box's inside seemed to match perfectly with the deep red of Marguerite's. Were humans really so fragile that utter defeat could result when an enemy was not even present? And those walls--those cursèd walls!—how could they withstand such treatment without so much as a dent or stain? How was there no indication of a struggle? Each time, Marguerite fought. Each time, Marguerite lost.

After bouts of battles and spells of sleepless nights spent nursing aching/stinging limbs, she had convinced herself that there was no way out, no use beating up the walls, and no man—no knight in shining armor—to save the day.

_Is any of this even real?_

She lifted her head and pulled back the side curtain that was blocking the window. The striking soreness of her neck (having been in the same position for too long) vouched for the reality of the situation. Through the glass, Marguerite peeked, only to find her surroundings even less comforting than her tiny box. Shadows danced to a game of tag on the coach wall as fervently as the lightning raged, above.

_Lightning… always lightening. It was as if each strike tore the sky to pieces, tantalizing the seamstress who would have to fix/mend it. _

Irritating her eyes and rattling her nerves, the flashes erupted from darkness relentlessly. Even more disturbingly, there was no thunder. The sole passenger was left hanging on edge after each burst, waiting for something that was never to come. Similar to a silent film, the atmosphere tingled with a craving for sound.

Marguerite squeezed her eyelids shut and drew the curtain again. She didn't bother to look around as her body sought a comfortable arrangement. It made no difference if her eyes were open or not since the car was nearly pitch black anyway. A soft series of small 'thuds' was the only audible thing as Marguerite lay down to rest. The car shook as it stumbled along its own makeshift path, and Marguerite was thrown about with each volatile jolt. The full-length curtain added padding to her bed, and her dark chocolate curls lessened the impact, but that was not enough to prevent the dull, pounding pain of being rattled around in her hellish prison. There seemed to be no chance of achieving even the lightest level of sleep so she allowed herself to drift and drown in her physical throbbing, hoping only to pass out from a mixture of pain, exhaustion, emotional despair, and mental instability.

_I must be insane… How else could I have been taken captive by a runaway coach…_

_Three o'clock. The year's hottest season. Fierce blistering rays of heat spewed from the sky, almost as if the sun were trying to melt the earth or somehow snuff it out of existence._ _It wasn't the smartest time to be outside. Of course, Marguerite had pointed that out to the others several times, but there she was, regardless. The scalding afternoon heat was beyond cruel, threatening to send a wave of heatstroke upon any living being. Marguerite had taken refuge under a tree, but the shade from the leaves did nothing to combat the humidity. It had been steadily getting hotter throughout the morning, but the temperature wasn't the only thing rising. _

_Damn that man! Where was he? Was that not the rendezvous spot they had specifically agreed on? _

_The impatient brunette, further aggravated by the weather, ripped the hat from her head and threw herself to lean against the tree trunk. The moisture that had been trapped between her forehead and hat gathered into beads of sweat, which rolled down, past her temple, and into the collective pool being absorbed by her blouse. She swung her pack entirely over her right shoulder and unlatched the main pouch to dig for her water canteen. The instant her left hand gripped the desired item, Marguerite let her right arm fall to her side, relieving it of the burden, which landed clumsily at her feet. Where as the backpack was unusually heavy, the canteen was unusually light. She didn't even have to check to know that not a single drop was left. _

"_Great!" she cried out sarcastically, hurling the canteen away from herself and leaning back against the tree. She scowled into the open field before her, detesting the plateau more than usual. _

_That was when Murphy's Second Law came into play: No situation is ever so bad that it can't get worse. The buzz of nature had quieted just enough for the chatter of raptors to be heard in the distance._

"_Just great." Marguerite shut her eyes and let her head roll back against the bark. She was tempted to slide lifelessly to the ground, but she knew that would make getting up and fending off a hoard of carnivores dinosaurs exceptionally more difficult. 'I'll do it in a minute… I'll get up… refill my… pistol…' The world around her was swaying, and for a brief second she felt as if she would pass out from the heat. '…in a… minute…' But a minute turned into two, which turned into three…she would have continued to linger had a cool zephyr not swept past her fevered skin. Her set of piercing green eyes snapped open to pinpoint the source, and they were greeted by a black, one-horse coach. The sweet breeze was streaming from the coach's open door, ruffling the full-length scarlet curtain intended for the window. Marguerite's mouth twisted in a smile usually reserved only for the sight of diamonds and other such jewels. There was no sign of a coachman or passenger, so the heiress made no hesitation in approaching the draft (or to consider how an icy wind could possibly blow from a confined space). She drew as close as she could without actually getting inside, and, despite the crisp refreshing wind, doubts began surfacing. A coach in the jungle? And why would the horse have come to her? Marguerite grimaced, remembering the last mare the explorers had encountered. What a mess that had led to! _

"_If you're looking for Roxton, I'm afraid you're in the wrong place." The ebony stallion only reared onto it's hind legs as if to express its eagerness to journey onward. Hmmm, perhaps if she unlatched its harness from the coach she might just be able to swing a ride back to the tree house. Sure her seat would be a bit hot, seeing as it was a black horse, but five minutes of that versus half an hour more of waiting, walking home, and an encounter with raptors… the choice was obvious. There practically wasn't a choice at all!_

"_Well then!" She nodded with approval, all things considered. "Finally, a horse that knows how to choose a rider!" _

_As for that damn hunter, she's just leave a note. 'You snooze you lose, Roxton,' she chuckled teasingly to an imaginary companion as she started toward the horse to free it from the coach._

_What happened next took place in a fraction of a second. No sooner had she taken the first step away from the passenger's box, the velvety curtain flowed around her waist, jerking her violently inside. The door slammed shut as well, and the coach set off at an alarming speed. Marguerite did the first thing that came to her mind…_

"_ROXTON!"_

_She flung the window covering aside just in time to see the same black mare disappearing into the distance behind her… but… then… who was pulling the coach? There was only time for an expression of horror to tangle her features before the car jolted to the side, throwing her against the wall and knocking her unconscious._

A deathlike limpness currently took hold of Marguerite, allowing her body to toss and roll along with the wild coach as they rode off into the emptiness of an endless night.

A/N: Kind of strange, I know… that's exactly what I thought when I woke up from this dream. Don't worry- it gets weirder!


End file.
